Sing Noel
by 24-7Fanfictioner
Summary: Freddy Noel is the last heir to a hunting dynasty dating back to before even Greek times. He's psychic and more than a bit psychotic. Oh, he is also transgendered with an unhealthy lack of giving a damn most of the time. OMC OC Freddy /Crowley; spoilers up to season 6


((A/N: Okay, this will be a bit of a roller coaster! I would really, really appreciate any feedback that you might have as a reader for this story. Hell, even flames are welcomed at this point. This story will be getting down and dirty (explicit slash) during several points. My OC is ftm transgendered and if this offends you then go ahead and wear out someone who actually cares about your opinions on the matter. Anyways, enjoy!))

"Fuck, Sammy, couldn't you have called me before the fucking Apocalypse? It takes Lucifer wanting to rape your lily white ass for you to give your old buddy a ring?" Freddy Noel screeches into the phone, half tempted to chuck the damn thing at the wall and wash his hands of this whole mess that is being deposited in his lap.

Silence that can only be described as guilty filters through and he's about to launch on another tirade when Sam finally speaks up again, "Look, Freddy, I'm sorry and I'll buy you some really nasty tequila sometime in the future. But right now, I need you and your freaky abilities to get your ass over here and help avert the end of the world!" Sam yells right back and Freddy just grins and chuckles.

"Of course I'll be there, you asshole. Wouldn't miss the end of the world and tequila for anything. Be there in a day or so." With that, he hangs up, evilly not even giving the youngest Winchester time to reply or ask how he knows where 'there' is.

Freddy met Sam and Dean when they both ended up being at pastor Jim's place at the same time-them because they were dropped off by their dad and him because he was rehabilitating from a nasty run in with a pagan god that wanted to, literally, grind his bones to dust and bake some kind of tortillas with it. That thing was a basket of crazy that ended up making him have to take two months off before he was fit for ass kicking duty once again.

Him and Dean hadn't really hit it off-okay, bit of an understatement. Dean had hated him when he found out that Freddy was only a year older than himself and had been solo hunting since he was fifteen. But hey, when your family has been hunting since the B.C.s and have strong psychic genes, there's a certain standard you're expected to hold.

As in: being as batshit crazy and dysfunctional as possible, which Freddy took pride in hitting the trifecta of.

Cackling, he claps his hands and begins to gather all of his things, grin never leaving his face.

…...

His sugar high only increased the longer he drove and he has a rather unstable mix of coffee, Full Throttle, Red Vines, marshmallows, and Reese's Cups churning through his system by the time he drives up to Bobby Singer's dilapidated salvage yard. Good for him, bad for everyone that now has to deal with him.

Suddenly nervous, he gets out of his crapmobile and brushes himself down, trying to straighten out his black t-shirt and matching basketball shorts, scuffing black boots together to dislodge some of the mud that stubbornly clings there. Combing back sandy blond hair with his fingers he gives up on looking presentable and strides confidently forward. Well, as confident as someone can when they're so hyped up on sugar and caffeine that they can barely walk straight, that is.

Not even bothering with the doorbell, he simply walks right in and grins at the three pairs of eyes that instantly snap up at him.

"Lucy, I'm home! Actually, wait. I hope Lucy isn't here because if they are I'm seriously never going to let them live down how they were portrayed in Ghost Rider-ever." Freddy adds as a precaution. They all just blink at him-in sync-and that sends him through another giggling fit before tiredly flopping on the lumpy couch and looking at them wearily, artificial energy drained.

"So, can someone catch me up on what the hell I've been missing?" He asks, practically becoming one with the sofa as he sinks back farther into it.

Sam is the quickest to recover and most used to his antics. "Hello to you too, Freddy."

"Hold on a damn minute, this," Bobby says, jabbing an almost accusing finger at the petite, blond idjit that now resides on his couch, "Is Freddy Noel?" He seems both alarmed, disbelieving, and shocked by the mere thought of such a thing being true, let alone the reality of it.

Before Sam can reply, Freddy jumps up and stomps over to them, exhaustion gone as he glares down at the still sitting Bobby, ignoring Dean's pursed mouth and Sam's objecting face. "Why the fuck does everyone act that way when they meet me? No, of course I'm not the Freddy Noel-I'm the other one that also happens to have orange eyes and is the sole heir to a hunting dynasty!" Growling with irritation, he slams his hands flat against the table and gives the older hunter a stink eye the likes of which has never been used in his house before.

"Just because I'm short and skinny does not mean that I can't kick your ass from here to Texas and back with a blindfold on." Suddenly, it's as if all the irritation drains out of him and he leans back thoughtfully, tapping his chin as his aforementioned phosphorescent orange eyes sparkle in amusement, "Then again, my sense of direction isn't the best so you'd probably just as easily end up in Boston or Sadi Arabia instead." He laughs in amusement and, unexpectedly, Bobby joins him.

"Damn, it is you. You're just buckets of crazy enough that you can't be anyone or anything else." Bobby grins and goes to fetch some whisky, knowing with that particular idjit around, he's going to more than need it.

"Hiya, Dean. You miss me?" Freddy coos, taking Bobby's vacated seat and propping his chin in his hand as he finally turns to Dean-and comes a screeching stop.

"Sammy boy, how come you forgot to mention that Deanny here took a nice long stroll to hell and back?" His voice is icy and his eyes never focus away from Dean. Except he's not looking so much at Dean as at a fixed point inside of the suddenly stiff and tense hunter.

Sam audibly swallows while Dean glares at him. "What is it to you, peach fuzz?" Dean bites out, the first thing he's said since Freddy waltzed through the door.

"Really? You're resorting to teenage nicknames so soon?" He sighs in a put upon way, pouting when he just gets a glare in return. "There isn't anything in it for me. I just prefer to know what shit storm I'm jumping into so that I can pack accordingly. So how about you fine gentlemen bring me up to date so that I can figure it out, hm?" Leaning back in the chair, his feet barely even touch the table before Bobby is yelling at him to not even think about it. Scowling, he slowly lowers the offending appendages as the man returns with several bottles of beer.

"Dean, Freddy is right. I called him here and if he's going to be of any help we have to tell him what's been going on." Sam pleads, ever the self appointed voice of reason. Dean grunts in reply but grabs a beer and they all settle in to bring him up to date.

Freddy does his best to pay attention and ignore how both of the brother's eyes flick from his 5 o'clock shadow to his scrawny chest questioningly throughout.

…...

Taking a deep breath, Freddy tries to line up all the information in a more easily digestible way, tugging a strand of hair into his mouth and swirling it thoughtfully with his tongue, ignoring the disgusted look shot his way for such a gesture.

"Just so I'm clear-Sam died and Dean sold his soul to get him back around the same time it was discovered that he has demon blood and has some psychic powers because of it." They both nod, so he continues in a level voice, "from there, Dean was raised out of hell by some angel named Castiel and you were all reunited only for it to end up being Sam having developed an addiction to demon blood and both of you expected to grab your ankles for Lucifer-who you let out of his box-and Michael, respectively. Now you've just recently come back from trying to gank the devil with some itty bitty gun while he summoned Death and are trying to figure out what to do."

Another round of nods and he honestly can't help the fury that boils inside of him and manifests in a sudden heavier pressure inside of the room as normally warm orange eyes blaze with anger. "And you decide that now is a good time to call me? What the hell were you dickwads thinking?" He yells beyond furious and traveling far too close to being hurt for comfort.

"I know neither of you think much of me but, despite what you think, I do know what the hell I'm doing. Fuck, I'm a Noel! I'm breed to handle this kind of shit." There's the hurt, the slight clenching of his hands in his lap as he hides behind righteous anger.

And it does hurt. He knows he's crazy and gives a whole new definition to fucked up on a daily basis but when it comes to hunting, he's damn good and knows his shit. People see him and they think that he's too small and weak to carry the family name of Noel and, maybe, they're right. But he does more than his best and he's really good when he tries. No one sees that, though. All they see is some mango eyed freak with body issues that's as likely to shank a monster as he is to befriend one.

"Look, Freddy. I'm sorry. I know we should have called you ages ago but everything happened so fast that I wasn't even thinking!" Sam huffs, slugging back another shot of the vodka that was introduced at some point to the ensemble of alcohol.

Dean has remained mostly quiet throughout the story, only contributing when necessary, but now he meets Freddy's gaze, "For what it's worth, you've been doing a good job. With the stories I've heard about the Noels' your ancestors wouldn't be disappointed in you." He says, giving a crooked smile. Freddy acknowledges the compliment with a nod of his head.

Sighing, he looks down at the too large gold watch strapped to his thin wrist, groaning when he sees it's well past two in the morning and he'd arrived at seven after sixteen hours of straight driving.

"I'm running on about four hours of sleep for the past two weeks. So, I'm going to find somewhere to crash until morning-even if it's on the floor-and process all of this. Then later today I'll see if I can figure out what to do." He stands and goes to sway towards the door, managing to somehow make it through the door instead of smacking into the wall and stumble down the steps in the vague direction of his car.

Groping around he eventually finds it and unlocks the trunk, grabbing his suitcase and duffel before closing it and trudging back into the house. He catches them talking before entering, and hangs back just out of view to hear what they're saying.

"You really think he can help, Sammy?" Dean asks, followed by the sound of someone unfolding and laying out blankets.

"You said so yourself. He does live up to his family name." Sam replies.

"This has been bugging me. When I first came into the business and heard about the Noels, I only heard about one heir-Joy. Where did Freddy work in with that?" This time it's Bobby's time to question and Freddy's breath catches, waiting for how the brothers will reply.

"He is Joy-or, at least, was Joy. Put down any notion of that by the time he was six, though. He's transgendered, if you know what it means. Bug him about it and he's likely to rip off your balls and shove them down your throat." Sam says cooly and Freddy's heart beat settles a bit more.

Backtracking, he makes sure to have his footsteps be audible before opening the screen door. Someone has thrown a few blankets and pillows on the couch, so he takes it for the invitation it is and clunks his baggage down.

"Wake me up before I'm ready to get up and I'll most likely shank you." He mumbles, swiftly taking off his boots and socks before carelessly shucking his t-shirt and shorts. He's left standing in nothing but black cotton boxers with his gold watch. A sharp intake of breath makes him turn around.

Following the three other hunters gazes downwards, he sees what they're staring at. "Yeah, got rid of those tumours a couple of years ago. Started hormone shots even before that." Shrugging, he absently rubs over one of the horizontal scars under his pectoral before turning and arranging the bedding to his liking.

Sinking into the blankets, he turns his back to the rest of the room and drifts into a half sleep, not falling all the way under until he's the only one left on the first floor of the old house. He dreams of a girl named Joy that never really existed.


End file.
